Bad Company

Hannah carried on. “And yet we know that von Berger escaped from Berlin in a Storch aircraft. He was a prisoner of war for a couple of years, then became a hugely successful businessman.”

“I know nothing of that. Please believe me. I was just a relief secretary, nobody of any importance.” She said almost vacantly, “I made the coffee,” and because she was old and tired and her guard was down, she added, “The Fuhrer liked it black and not too strong. The second cup he liked with brown sugar. Of course at the end, he had the palsy. His hands shook very much and I had to pour for him. He had to lift the cup with both hands. It was very awkward when he was dictating.”

In the astonished silence that followed, Hannah said, “The Fuhrer dictated to you? But you told us you were a nobody?”

The old woman looked at her, dazed, put a hand to her face, and Dillon, in one of the cruelest acts of his life, shouted at her in German, “Fraulein Hesser, you have been less than honest. You will speak.”

Hannah started to protest, “For God’s sake, Sean-”

But he pushed her aside and towered over the old lady. “You took dictation from the Fuhrer, didn’t you?”

“Yes.” She was terrified.

“What kind of dictation? Explain.”

Her head shook from side to side frantically. “No, I dare not, I swore a holy oath to serve the Fuhrer.”

Already hating himself, Dillon raised his voice and thundered at her, “What was so special? You will tell me.”

She broke then and answered him in German. “For six months each day, he dictated his diary to me.”

Hannah spoke excellent German, and Ferguson spoke enough to understand. “Dear God in heaven, Hitler’s bloody diary,” he said.

Dillon knelt down and kissed Sara Hesser on the forehead. “I’m sorry I frightened you. It’s all right now.” He hugged her. “Just one more thing. What you said about Max von Berger. It wasn’t true, was it?”

Her eyes had filled with tears. “No. He was there in the Fuhrer’s study on the thirtieth. I was there, too. The Fuhrer had a mission for him. To fly out of Berlin in a plane hidden in Goebbels’s garage.”

“To do what?” Hannah asked.

“Why, to save the diary. A holy book, the Fuhrer called it. He said it must never be copied.”

Ferguson said, “The diary was completely up to date, then?”

“Oh, yes, up to that very day. I covered the last six months of the war. All the traitors, all those who let him down, accounts of everything. His attempts to negotiate a peace with President Roosevelt. The secret meetings in Sweden.”

The silence was breathtaking. “His what?” Charles Ferguson whispered.

“Oh, yes,” she said. “I wrote down every word, General, and, in spite of the years, I remember everything,” which was exactly what she proceeded to tell them.

They left half an hour later and paused by the Daimler. “God, you were a bastard back there,” Hannah said to Dillon.

“He certainly was,” Ferguson said, “but it worked.”

“It was all those years ago, but the SS training never goes away,” Dillon said. “The shouted command, the harsh voice, and the response is a reflex.”

“Anyway, now we know where Max von Berger’s millions came from,” Ferguson said.

“And can’t do a thing about it,” Hannah said.

“We’re also in possession of the uncomfortable fact that in 1945, Hitler made a peace overture to Roosevelt and Roosevelt took it seriously enough to send Jake Cazalet’s father to Sweden to discuss it with Hitler’s representative,” Ferguson said.

“But, sir, if nothing came of it, does it matter?” Hannah said.

“Oh yes, my dear, it most certainly does. And the involvement of the President’s father makes it worse. The media would have a field day. Roosevelt, Cazalet and Hitler.” He shook his head. “It could do the President great harm.”

“And, at the worst, finish him,” Dillon said.

“Yes. Come on. Let’s go see von Berger.”

“I’m your man,” said Dillon, and hurried to his car.

As the Daimler drove away, Hannah said to Ferguson, “I hope the old lady will be all right, sir.”

“Yes, I’m sorry about that, but it had to be done.”

“What do you intend to say to the Baron?”

Ferguson smiled. “I haven’t the slightest idea, Superintendent.”

Newton and Cook let them leave and then followed. Twenty minutes later, Newton called. “We’re just passing the Dorchester. They’re turning into South Audley Street.”

“Fine. Hang around, in case I need you.”

Rossi switched off his phone and turned. “It would seem they intend to pay us a visit.”

Max von Berger smiled. “Well, that should be interesting.”

At the Rashid house, a maid in a black dress and white apron opened the door. Hannah said, “Is Baron von Berger at home? General Ferguson would like a word.”

“Yes, miss, you’re expected. Please follow me.”

She led the way upstairs from the hall and opened the door to the drawing room, where the Baron sat by the fire, Marco standing by the window.

“General, what a surprise. What can I do for you?”

Ferguson turned to Hannah. “Tell him, Superintendent.”

Afterward, the Baron shook his head. “An amazing story. Ridiculous, of course, but then what would one expect from an old lady who obviously went through traumatic times in the war? She obviously suffers from some delusion, some fantasy that she knew the Fuhrer. I was an aide in the Bunker for three months and certainly knew the staff. I can’t recall a Sara Hesser.”

“Well, you would say that, ould son, wouldn’t you?” Dillon told him.

“Mind you, I’m intrigued by the whole idea,” the Baron said. “Perhaps the superintendent could give me the view from Scotland Yard. If, for example, I were in control of deposits in private accounts in Switzerland, would that constitute a crime in the U.K.?”

Hannah glanced at Ferguson. “No, sir, it would not.”

“And if someone gave you their diary for safekeeping, would that be illegal?”

“Of course not, but-”

“For God’s sake, let’s cut the nonsense and get down to facts,” Ferguson said. “We now know the truth about how you got out of Berlin and why. We also know the source of your money – the money that got you started again after the war. And then there’s the diary: a holy book, Sara Hesser said.”

“A most fanciful idea.”

“Especially when it records meetings in Sweden between Hitler’s go-between and President Cazalet’s father.”

“As I said, a fanciful idea.” The Baron smiled. “Though it certainly wouldn’t help Jake Cazalet’s political future much, would it?” He smiled again. “But all this is nonsense. Stories of the Fuhrer’s diary have abounded for years. Charlatans and forgers have tried to produce such items repeatedly. Now we have the fantasy of some aging lady. No, it won’t do.”

“Even if both British and German records indicate that she was indeed there in the Bunker?”

“Oh, really? Hmm. Well, there you are, then. I’m afraid there’s not more I can add, General – though if all of this were true, the prospect of it being revealed would be very unpleasant for the President, I should think. You take my meaning?”

“I certainly do.” Ferguson nodded to Hannah and Dillon. “Let’s go,” and he led the way out.

Marco poured an Irish whiskey and took it to his father. “Bravo, you deserve it. He never knew what hit him.”

“Ferguson is a very astute man, Marco. He won’t let it go – and this thing could easily leak.”

“But wouldn’t that accomplish your aim? To hurt the President?”